


Kyrie eleison

by this_is_a_love_story (diner_drama)



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 06:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18360173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diner_drama/pseuds/this_is_a_love_story
Summary: This is a love story.





	Kyrie eleison

**Author's Note:**

> Is it really fanfiction if you're basically just saying what happened in the episodes? Who knows, and yet here we are.

This is a love story.

Once upon a time, two people met each other at a passive-aggressive dinner party. They both had imaginary friends and severe emotional problems, and they both knew that their relationship would be an enormous mistake.

"If you ever need someone to talk to, or, you know, be there," he'd told her, ill-advisedly, before trailing off.

Later he said to God that he was only going to offer her pastoral advice and comfort, for her loss. God could tell he was lying.

When she actually took him up on the offer, he fumbled with his papers, dropped things, lost his train of thought.

 _Shut up_ , he said to God.

"If you ever want to talk about stuff, I'm here. You can come whenever you want. I'd like you to come, if it helps." He gave her a bible. It felt like handing over a book of love poems.

 _I can help her_ , he said to God. _She needs guidance._

She had an imaginary friend, too. He could tell from the way that mid-conversation she would leave, for just a moment. It probably wasn't God that she talked to; it was someone with a sense of humour.

Three tiny cans of pre-mixed G&T later and they were side-by-side on a bench and any doubts he'd had about her intentions had been put to bed; their connection was such that he could look in her eyes and know. He'd walked through the possibilities for their relationship a dozen times, and he knew that she had too. The only thing remaining was to persuade one another of the right path.

There was a meta-conversation going on above and beyond the one they were having out loud. It was already obvious to both of them that they wanted to fuck. It was obvious that they both wanted more than that. It was all so horrifyingly obvious that to say it out loud would just be wantonly erotic.

"What if you meet someone you like?" she'd asked, the slut.

"I talk and drink and laugh and give them Bibles, and hope they eventually leave me alone."

"What if you meet someone you love?" See? Obvious.

"We're not going to have sex."

She looked a little hurt, but she didn't look surprised.

"I know that's what you _think_ you want from me, but it's not. It won't bring any good."

 _See?_ , he said to God. _I've handled it._

 

He had not handled it.

A bottle of good whiskey was helping, but some things, including uncontrollable feelings for the beautiful woman who you can't get out of your head because she just _gets_  you, are made rather worse by alcohol. He idly considered his options - running away to sea, wearing some kind of chastity device, perhaps faking his own death - and then there she was, his sinful thoughts made flesh, standing in his office.

Fuck.

"You okay, Father?" she said. _She's doing it on purpose._

"Ah, fuck, you," he said, with the honesty that comes with alcohol, "calling me 'Father' like it doesn't turn you on just to say it."

He was rather annoyed at how delighted he was to see her.

"Here's to peace," he pronounced, raising his glass, then pausing.

"And those who get in the way of it."

* * *

An attraction so strong that it corrupts a priest is almost impressive, but she couldn't quite bring herself to be proud of it. You shouldn't chase after a man who is already in a committed relationship, after all.

She was bursting with feelings with nowhere to put them - grief, love, guilt and fear were fighting their way out of her and she was barely holding them inside. It might not be the kindest thing in the world, she thought, to inflict her own mix of neuroses onto another person who was just as busy with their own problems.

This is the kind of time when people get drawn into the Jesus stuff, she knew. It didn't make any sense, but she almost caught herself praying to God, just for a little peace. Fortunately, someone else was available.

"I know what to do with you," he'd said. He made it sound dirty.

Once she'd started to confess her sins it became an unstoppable force, secrets spilling out of her in a rush of words she couldn't stem. The catharsis of finally releasing her fears and opening herself up to someone she could trust was overwhelming and she kept on until tears began to spring from her eyes, unbidden.

"So just tell me what to do," she concluded. Silence. "Just fucking tell me what to do, Father!"

She's exposed, vulnerable.

"Kneel," says his soft voice through the dark wood of the confession box, and a feeling of certainty pulls her irresistibly, battling against her misgivings. "Just kneel," he tells her gently, and she sinks to her knees, hoping for some kind of mercy, some kind of absolution.

Then the curtain is torn open and there he is, standing over her, with the most intense look on his face. He takes in the sight of her, kneeling in supplication, her moist lips parted, tracks from tears running down her cheeks.

He drops to his knees in front of her and traces the tears with his thumbs, then touches her face in wonder at the soft reality of her skin, before finally granting her the deliverance of a kiss.

She has the fleeting urge to say _it would be more efficient just to get a glory hole installed_ , but the thought drifts away and the only thing in the world is the two of them, and she pushes her whole body upwards against his as they embrace, lips and tongues intertwined, hands clutching desperately at each other, until he flees from the wrath of God and from the temptations of her body.

* * *

The frustrating heartbreaking wonderful unsatisfying fumble sends her running to the bed of the lawyer who might be a misogynist, which did help for an hour or so.

Then, finally, he turns up at her door, with his little collar and everything, full of good intentions and explanations for why they couldn't do the thing that they were definitely, inevitably going to do; a future that was carved in stone the moment he crossed the threshold.

"I can't be physical with you," he said. This was nonsense, and she told him so.

"I can't have sex with you, because I'll fall in love with you. And if I fall in love with you, I won't burst into flames, but my life will be fucked."

_We're going to have sex._

She's talking to her imaginary friend again, but if she doesn't pay attention and believe what he's saying, then he won't either.

"I'm supposed to love _one_  thing," he continued, to himself as much as to her.

_Oh, my God, we're gonna have sex._

"For fuck's sake! Stop that!" His resolve was slipping.

"I don't think you want to be told what to do at all. I think you know exactly what you want to do. If you really wanted to be told what to you do, you'd be wearing one of these."

"Women aren't actually allowed to -"

"Oh, fuck off, I know!" he explodes. She laughs at him.

He gives in.

"We're going to have sex, aren't we?"

She nods.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

He tilts his head to the side and finally smiles. "Okay."

He unties her trenchcoat, then steps back when he realises that underneath she's only wearing lacy underwear and a sheen of coconut oil. After some hesitation, he admires the sight and strokes her hip lightly, with reverent wonder.

She has to kiss him before he changes his mind, and she does. She looks into his eyes, then at his lips. He takes her face in his hand and kisses her back, electricity coursing through their bodies.

He gasps against her mouth and they tumble towards the bedroom, intertwined, the soft curves of her body pressing against him urgently as he loses himself in her. She's grabbing at his belt, unbuckling it as he tries to pull her even closer to him, and her hand reaches down and just lightly grazes the head of his cock.

He breaks away suddenly and pushes her away, down onto the bed. Her eyes, heavy with lust, are a little confused.

Looking at her with great intensity, he kneels before her. He smirks, and pulls down her knickers, dropping them on the floor.

"Lord, have mercy upon us," he murmurs, and then buries his face between her legs.

**Author's Note:**

> Also find me on [Tumblr](https://this-is-a-love-story-fleabag.tumblr.com).


End file.
